Manning loved her presented itself to her bloodlessly, stilled from any imaginative quiver or thrill of passion or disgust. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. ‘This is not love, Marthe. Give up your lonely hours of work here. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked.
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